


Worth the Wait

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Enemies to Lovers, Exes, M/M, School Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: The first time Bucky ever saw Clint Barton, he thought he was an asshole. Apparently that wasn't enough to keep him safe.Clint and Bucky met in high school. Maybe it's time to try that again.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 30
Kudos: 282
Collections: Winterhawk Wonderland





	Worth the Wait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lasenby_Heathcote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasenby_Heathcote/gifts).



> A pinch hit for Winterhawk Wonderland. The prompts were:
> 
> 1\. Enemies to lovers  
> 2\. High School AU  
> 3\. They used to date
> 
> Attempted to get them all there - I really hope you like it!

He would've turned back half a hundred times if Steve hadn't insisted on picking him up and driving him. At the front doors, at the place the bus had always stopped outside, at the corner of the street where you could first see the brown brick facade...

At home, standing in front of the mirror and lopsided in his suit, looking at all the places the weight had dropped off him and the limb, too. He'd stared at himself: at the dark hair that fell in his face 'cos he couldn't tie it back on his own; at the gunmetal-gray eyes that somehow carried everything he'd seen within them; at the well-cut suit that had been cut for someone entirely different. What the hell kind of business did he have, going to this event that was a celebration of someone he'd lost a long time ago, someone that'd bled out in the desert and left whatever the hell he was now in their place?

If it wasn't for Steve he would've just tossed the invitation in the trash as soon as it had dropped onto his doormat - on top of the pile of bills and doctors' letters and junk that was piled there, that dragged at the door on the rare occasions he ventured outside. Then again if it wasn't for Steve he wouldn't've been around to accept the invitation in the first place, so when the punk showed enthusiasm Bucky resigned himself to the night in hell. 

So he'd kicked the pile of trash away from his front door, 'cos this suit wasn't made for scaling the fire escape, and climbed into Steve's ostentatious SUV, let him carefully tie Bucky's hair away from his face with a band that always left a red mark around his wrist. 

Steve's suit wasn't designed for scaling fire escapes, either, and ruining it would've cost a lot more than Bucky's did. 

"C'mon, Bucky," Steve'd said bracingly, "it could be fun. And if it's not, then it's only one night, and you've got something to tell Sam about next week." 

Sam was somehow both the most and least obnoxious of the therapists that Bucky'd tried since his return. He was an asshole, made no secret of it, but he was an asshole who had been there, who had lost people, and that made him something like a friend. 

Unlike Steve, who had dragged him here, whose idea this had been in the first place, who was the sole reason that Bucky was standing in front of the front doors of his high school again, WELCOME, CLASS OF more years ago than Bucky wanted to think about, and a hundred lifetimes of experience past that. 

Steve was on his shit list for good. 

Steve's hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed lightly, a second of pressure that worked a lot better than Bucky wanted it to, betrayed by his own emotions. He slumped slightly, resigned, and rubbed a hand over his face, over the stubble he hadn't bothered tidying away. 

And he didn't ask, _do you think he'll be here?_ , even though they both knew he was thinking it, because he wasn't sure he could walk through the damned doors if he knew. 

*

The first time Bucky saw Clint Barton, he thought he was an asshole. 

Bucky had carefully cultivated himself a bad boy rep. It wasn't something he was particularly inclined to, but it was something that had become necessary within about five minutes of knowing Steve Rogers, who was the size of a teacup poodle and had the unearned confidence of a Tibetan mastiff. If he didn't want Steve getting the both of them killed as soon as they hit high school, he had to become one of the scariest things in the halls, and after a while he figured he liked it; liked the leather jacket he found in a thrift shop, liked the sweep of his hair across his face, liked the way half the time he just had to show up to a fight to end it. 

Most of the new kids scuttled out of his way in the halls, so Bucky had kinda got out of the habit of watching where he was walking, too busy smirking sideways as Steve recounted the latest injustices in the lunch hall to notice the guy in his way. He slammed his shoulder into an unmoving mass and staggered back a couple steps, blinking up at the guy, taken aback. 

He was over six feet of muscle, the kind of physique that would have the sports coaches salivating, and sure as hell didn't leave Bucky unmoved. He had tousled blond hair and sky blue eyes, and he grinned down at Bucky like he knew something, or he wanted something - like he wasn't scared at all. 

"Well aren't you just adorable," he said, and Bucky felt a furious and unaccustomed sting of disappointment as Steve bristled next to him. 

"Just 'cos I'm short," he started, five foot even of concentrated fury, and the guy raised his hands, palms out, and backed up a step. 

"No offense, tiny," he said, "but I wasn't talking to you," and he reached out and brushed his fingertips against the leather covering Bucky's side. 

Bucky pulled on a scowl, 'cos he had a collection, and glared up at the guy, his fists clenched and his feet braced. 

"You're gonna want to take that hand back if you don't want to lose it," he growled, and felt the heat of intense anger - told himself it was anger - coiling in his belly. It worsened as the guy's grin widened, brightening up the dingy hallway like summer sun. 

"Sorry about that," he said, and they'd just met so Bucky didn't know how much he meant it, how much he always, always did. "Getting ahead of myself. I'm Clint." 

"I don't care," Bucky said and barged past him, 'cos they were late for English and in the classroom Clint wouldn't be taking up all the goddamn air. 

"Just give me time," Clint called from behind him, and as much as he wanted to Bucky didn't turn to see how he looked when he laughed.

The first time Bucky ever saw Clint Barton, he thought he was an asshole. Apparently that wasn't enough to keep him safe. 

*

The banner over the main entrance wasn't the worst of it, not by a long way. 

The large foyer inside dwarfed the table they'd put there, metallic helium balloons in the school colours affixed to the corners and a rictus kind of grin affixed to the face of the woman sitting behind it. The table was about half full of badges, the placing of them suggesting that a lot of people had already arrived; why anyone would want to spend longer than they had to here, Bucky had no clue. The names that were left he halfway remembered, trying to match them up with faces but picturing instead kids from the church services his ma had dragged him to as a kid, and the barely-past-teens he'd trained with in Basic. The kind of background faces that your brain populated your dreams with, half-familiar but entirely forgotten. 

Bucky let Steve deal with the badges. Steve had always been better with people - even more so, now - so Bucky stood in the corner by the trophy cabinet, slowly clenching and unclenching his hand. It was meditative, keeping it in time with his breathing, and Sam had recommended he develop soothing exercises like that. That this one also kept people out of his way on public transport - that it looked like he was a lot closer to snapping than he cared enough to feel - was just an advantage. 

"Hey," Steve said, and clipped Bucky's badge to him, one of the unthinking tasks he took on that would've been the start of a fight if it had been anyone but Steve. "I had to show her my ID to get these badges from her, she couldn't believe it was me." 

Bucky snorted. 

"Then she's clearly an idiot," he said, "'cos you're the exact same asshole you always were back then." Sure, Steve had shot up a foot in height, and he'd piled on more muscle than he knew what to do with, but he still had the same pretty face and the same idiot grin. Steve swayed against him, nudged their shoulders together, and herded Bucky down the familiar hallway towards the gym. 

The linoleum had been replaced, inoffensive flecked gray that hid the dirt in place of the flagged black and white they'd grown on. He was pretty sure, though, that the lockers were the exact same, and it was tempting to go up one floor and check his out, see if it still opened to the same trick. Might have done it, too, if you didn't need two hands. 

The doors of the gym were propped open with weights from the equipment room, and the low murmur of chatter reached them - apparently as late as Bucky had kept them, the DJ still hadn't started playing, which meant Bucky might be forced to talk. He hung back and checked out the room from the doorway, Steve lurking at his shoulder - low lights and more of those balloons, tacky silver strands hiding the walls. Clumps of awkward people stood together around the edges, and it looked like every awkward goddamn school dance that Bucky had ever attended. 

"It looks just like prom," Steve said, echoing his thoughts almost exactly. 

Of course, Bucky had never gone to prom. 

*

Against all the goddamn odds, Steve had wound up liking Clint, and Clint had been (by Bucky, at least) reluctantly admitted to the small social circle they inhabited. He maybe should've been more pissed about Clint hitting it off so well with Bucky's ex, Natasha, only she never really liked anyone and he still loved to see her smile. She treated Clint like a younger brother, or like an ungainly puppy, and honestly Bucky could see the resemblance. 

Clint - Clint contained multitudes. Once you made the effort to dig a little past the surface - which was brash and played dumb and grinned wide and bright and heartbreaking - there was a hell of a lot more to him. The idiot tricks he did for laughs and attention showed a whole lot of dedication, practice and skill. The quick flash of a grin he showed when anyone said something good about him was a little hesitant in the shape of it, and the self-deprecating remarks that followed always cut too sharp. 

He was a nice young man, too, the way Bucky's gram had always meant it, the way she had saved it up and given it out rarely. Clint made people laugh when they were sad, and shared the little he had easily, and defended the weak in the same way Bucky and Steve had always tried their best to do. He was a good friend, even if he was a terrible flirt - had a habit of asking Bucky to every pep rally, football game and dance that was going, and took it with a mischievous grin every time he was knocked back. 

"There it is," he said, low and awed, when Bucky couldn't help grinning at the terrible line he'd tried. "Jesus, I knew you'd have a good smile, but that's a work of art." 

"Stow it," Bucky said, habitual scowl sliding back into place like it'd never left, shoving at Clint's shoulder. 

"Sure," Clint's voice was as easy as his smile, and his smile was as easy as sunshine. "I'll stow it for now, but someday I'm gonna get you to fall in love with me, Bucky Barnes. Just you wait." 

"Sure," Bucky said, "and our first date can be ice skating in hell," but he hadn't been able to fight the little curl of warmth when Clint threw his head back and shouted a laugh. 

It took a couple years, and a lot more asking, and a realisation mostly sparked by how bad Bucky wanted to beat Clint's dad's head in, the time he showed up with a black eye. It took early morning runs and late night talks, study sessions and house parties, for the slow creeping realisation to settle in that, goddammit, Clint was right. 

But when he showed up outside Bucky's bedroom window, boom box in hand, and asked him to go to prom, there was no possible answer other than yes. 

*

Steve probably hadn't meant - when he put a reassuring hand in the small of Bucky's back and gave him a gentle but emphatic shove - for Bucky to head straight through the masses of people and over to the bar they'd set up by the bleachers. 

"Beer," he said, and the kid behind the table fished a bottle out of a bucket filled with ice water and charged him five bucks for it. He should've brought the hip flask that Natasha had given him for graduation, but the odds were better than good that the punch bowl nearby was already spiked. There was something about being back in these surroundings that brought back everything else, too, and Bucky leaned against the bleachers, beer dangling from his fingers, and watched the same social dynamics from high school play themselves out all over again. 

He flashed a grin at Steve when the guy looked over at him, pleading; he'd been cornered by the entire cheerleading squad, looked like, and Bucky wondered if any of them even remembered his name. Same as all through high school, Bucky was content to watch everything from the sidelines, and when someone came and leaned next to him he grinned around the mouth of his bottle and leaned his shoulder against hers. 

"What did Steve pay you to come?" 

Natasha let out a breath, and he turned to look at her, a grin sliding onto his face like it belonged there. She effortlessly outshone everyone else in the gym, her hair a deep shade of red and her lipstick chosen to match, dressed to kill in a black dress that hugged every curve. She wasn't exactly a sight for sore eyes - he had lunch with her at least once a week, and she was a fierce competitor at their monthly board game nights - but she was better than anything else this place had to offer. Pretty much always had been. 

"Steve cannot afford me," she said, and even with Steve's super rich husband, these days, he was willing to believe that was true. 

"Well I'm glad you're here," he said, nudging her gently. "There wasn't much else about this place worth coming back for." 

"Steve seems to be enjoying himself, at least," she said, as Steve made a show of pointing to his wedding ring, backing slowly away from a group of people like he was afraid that they were going to pounce. Bucky turned to grin at Natasha again, but she was looking down at her drink, turning it between her fingers, and wouldn't meet his eyes. "And I thought," she said after a moment, "that it would be nice to meet up with old friends." 

And he knew. Something about her voice, something about what he could see of the expression on her face, it wasn't even a surprise when a low voice spoke from behind his shoulder. 

"Hey, Bucky." 

He turned around. 

"Hey, Clint," he said, and punched him in the face. 

*

A week before prom Bucky had stood in Clint's hospital room, holding his hand tightly - or having his hand held tightly, maybe, awkwardly coordinated around Clint's cast, because there was a distinct possibility that if he'd been free to move he'd have murdered Clint's dad. 

"He didn't mean it," Clint told him, tired and sore and resigned to it in ways that Bucky hated. "He just got drunk, and -" 

"And you've gotta stop making excuses for him," Bucky told him, furious in the same way that he'd always got angry over Steve, although at least with Steve it'd mostly been the universe fucking him over, with Sarah Rogers an angry defensive force between him and it. "He could've killed you!"

It was an exaggeration maybe. _Maybe_. But Clint had two casts and couldn't sleep for bruises, and Bucky was trying to work out where the hell he could find for Clint to stay. 

"He'll be fine for a while," Clint said, dismissive, tugging Bucky gently closer an inch at a time, a tiny self-satisfied smile on his face when Bucky stopped pulling against him and gave in. Bucky still wasn't quite sure what it was, between them - they hadn't even kissed - but he knew he hadn't ever felt anything quite like it. He knew he was scared as hell that it was gonna go away. 

" _You'd_ better be fine for a while," Bucky said. "This wasn't an excuse to get out of taking me to prom, right?" 

"You kidding?" Clint said, and his mouth was curved into one of those beautiful sunshine smiles, a soft kinda wonder in his eyes when he looked at Bucky, and Bucky ducked his head and tried to work out how to tangle their fingers together better. "I'm gonna spend a week getting Tasha to teach me how to dance right on crutches," he said, and Bucky leaned in close and touched his mouth right next to Clint's eye, smiling against the skin. 

And so he dressed himself up in the suit that he and his sister had gone out to buy, with her failing to argue him around into a different tie. He'd insisted on the purple, which didn't do all that much for his colouring but was Clint's favourite colour in the world. 

He tried to do something different with his hair and wound up having to take his suit off again and go for yet another shower to get rid of all the wax he'd lathered in, and missed a phone call from Clint, who didn't pick up when he called right back. He figured it couldn't be that important - they'd be seeing each other in an hour in any case - and phoned Steve instead, teasing him about Peggy and how much taller she was than him, teasing him about how she was likely gonna show up in a London red bus. 

And then he sat in the living room, stomach tying itself in knots as the clock ticked slowly onwards, wishing like hell his family would stop hovering so he could take a couple swallows out of the hip flask he'd filled out of his mom's store under the kitchen sink. 

And Clint didn't show, and didn't show, and didn't show. 

*

Bucky followed Clint to the bathroom, Clint swearing nasally and cupping his nose, bent forward a little so he wouldn't drip too badly on his button-up shirt. 

The bathroom was brightly lit, a shock to the system after the dipped lights in the gym, and Bucky winced and leaned back against the door just as soon as he'd walked through it, unwilling to let anyone else interrupt. There was a soft tap against the cheap door behind him, which he took as Natasha offering a reassurance and a threat, both.

Clint blotted gingerly at his nose with a tissue, head tilted forward over the sink, and Bucky took the time to watch him in the mirror. 

He was as tall and muscledbound as he'd ever been. Age had been kinder to him than it had been to Bucky; he looked like he laughed a lot, the wince he was wearing wrinkling the skin by his eyes. He was dressed fancy - button-up purple shirt, purple tie a couple shades lighter, charcoal gray suit pants - but he'd kinda ruined the adult effect with the purple Converse he'd paired it all with. 

He looked - shit, he looked good. He looked like he always had, and it was a jolt just behind Bucky's sternum to realise how goddamned much he'd missed him. 

"You deserved that," he said, and Clint smiled a little at him in the mirror. 

"I know it," he said. 

"I thought you were _dead_ ," and the little crack in Bucky's voice there - he hadn't quite realised how heavily he'd still carried those weeks of worry. 

"I'm sorry," Clint said, and that sounded the same as it always had, too. Regretful and genuine and self-deprecating, like he wouldn't blame you if you never forgave him. 

"Kinda wished you were, at first," Bucky said, and Clint breathed out a laugh. 

"Yeah," he said. "I spent enough time begging -" 

"I thought you were makin' a fool out of me." 

"My parents died," he said, and Bucky nodded, 'cos he'd weaseled that much out of Natasha eventually, even though she said she'd been sworn to secrecy. Clint caught Bucky's eye in the mirror. "My mom wasn't supposed to be in the car." 

"I'm sorry," Bucky said, but he was frowning, because that had been a statement weighted with things he didn't understand. 

"Yeah," he said. "So was Barney." Clint turned and leaned back against the sinks, his eyes a little bloodshot and his nose swollen, and still the most beautiful goddamn thing Bucky had ever seen. "See, he'd done something to the brakes." 

Bucky gaped at him, not sure how the hell to react. 

"We had to run," Clint said. "I tried to call." 

"And then what?" Bucky asked, appalled by what he was hearing, appalled at what Clint had gone through. 

Clint grinned, lopsided and genuine and so familiar it made Bucky's heart ache inside his chest. 

"And then we joined the circus," he said. "The Amazing Hawkeye. I could - " he hesitated, then pushed himself forward, taking a couple steps forward across the blank white space between them. "I could tell you about it, maybe. If you want." 

"What," Bucky said, as Clint inched towards him, his smile widening slowly as Bucky made no effort to move away. "You've been waiting for me this whole time?" 

"No," Clint said. "I didn't wait for you." He reached out and cupped Bucky's cheek in his large, callused hand and - and Bucky had killed people, had nearly been killed himself under the blistering heat of a desert sun; had scared the shit out of half the kids in these goddamn halls. He had no business feeling so small. "But," Clint added, soft, so soft, "I never ended up getting over you, either." 

The kiss felt like it'd been a long time coming; the kiss somehow still felt like a surprise. Bucky closed his eyes and leaned up into it, broken and remade and somehow still fitting, right here, in a moment worth waiting for. 


End file.
